


May 2001

by helsinkibaby



Series: The Pieces of my Life [14]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, The West Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Het, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 07:46:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2142843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The MS announcement...</p>
            </blockquote>





	May 2001

It is an early May morning when Ellie gets the phone call that she's been expecting, the one from her father. She is alone in her apartment, for which she is grateful, because she doesn't know how she would have explained her nervous pacing back and forth to anyone else. Usually, a terse explanation as to her father's mere impending presence would suffice, but Ellie is well aware that she's more nervous than even that would warrant.

For once though, it's nothing to do with her relationship with her father, and the failings therein. Ever since the hullabaloo over the Surgeon General, there's been a peaceful détente between them, one where they're taking more time with one another, each trying to reach out to the other, bite their tongues a little more, not be so quick to fly off the handle, to take offence. Phone calls over the last couple of months have been almost pleasurable.

This promises to be nothing of the sort, and her heart is in her mouth when she picks up the phone, says hesitantly, "Hello?"

"Ellie?" To her surprise, the voice on the other end is just as tentative. "It's Dad."

"Hi Dad," she says, trying to conjure up a smile, curling her legs up underneath her.

"This isn't too early for you?" her father asks, and she casts a glance at the clock, which shows half past six in the morning. "Because your mother said that it would be ok…"

"It's fine Dad," Ellie tells him. "I have an early class at eight; I’m usually up by now." Most of the time, she amends to herself.

"Oh. That's good then." A pause, and she realises that she's never heard her father sound so unsure before. Well, unsure and calm that is. And your classes, they're going ok? Not too hard?"

"They're challenging," she tells him. "But I'm holding my own." In fact, she's doing rather more than that, and any other day, she'd love to tell him so, but that's not what this phone call is about and they both know it. So she cuts to the chase, letting him off the hook. "How are you Dad?"

There's another pause, and he lets out a long breath at the end of it. "I'm ok," he says finally. "I guess Mom told you what's going on here?"

Ellie nods. "Yes." Her voice sounds small, even to her, and her hands have suddenly turned to ice, because she knows now that this is real, that this is really going to happen. Somehow, when her mother was saying it to her, it seemed unreal, surreal, as if a mistake had been made. Hearing it from her father's lips gives it the air of reality, and she's not so sure she's ready for it.

Her father, the President of the United States, is going to admit to the public that he is suffering from Multiple Sclerosis. That he's known about it for eight years, and that he didn’t disclose it while running for election.

Her father, the President of the United States, has never been popular with certain elements of American society, and now those people, and even some of those who profess to love him, are going to tear him apart.

"When?" she asks now, and he sighs.

"We've got a poll in the field right now, but it's looking like it's going to be some time in the next week… I've just finished telling the Senior Staff." There's a rueful chuckle. "They're pretty pissed at me."

Ellie can well imagine, because she heard the anger in her mother's voice when she'd called her yesterday, and she's seen the people that her father works with on a day-to-day basis. Josh Lyman, Sam Seaborn, CJ Cregg, Toby Ziegler - these are all people who had uprooted their lives to campaign with her father when he was a dark horse candidate that nobody in their right minds would back to win. Ellie knows that each of them would walk through fire for him, and has. She can only imagine the sense of betrayal that they must be feeling.

And as she tries to imagine that, her eyes fall on a picture on her mantelpiece, a picture of her and the laughing, smiling, spiky-haired frat boy that she fell head over heels for her freshman year at Stanford. The man who is no longer her lover, but who is her best friend, the man with whom she shares everything.

Everything but this.

It's a different thing, she tells herself firmly. Greg will understand why she didn't tell him. Greg won't be angry with her.

He won't.

"Ellie?" Her father's voice brings her back to reality. "Are you still there?"

"I'm here Dad," she says quickly. "I just… are you sure you have to do this?"

"I'm sure." Sober and serious, it's the voice that he uses when he's made up his mind about something. It was the same kind of voice that he'd used when she was ten years old and their pet dog Jingo had to be put down, and he'd told the vet to do it over her sobs of protest. "It's gonna get pretty rough around here for a while Ellie… and for you too, and I'm sorry about that…"

"It's not your fault." The words pass Ellie's lips before she can think about them, but when she runs them through her head, she knows it's true. "We knew Dad… we knew when you ran that this could happen… we talked about it." She shrugs, tries to sound brave, even though she's shaking from head to foot. "We can't complain about it now."

"That's my girl." The words cause a rush of pride to go through her, because it's one of the first times that she can remember her father being proud of her for something she did that just came naturally; not the papers she slaved for hours over, the exams she studied hard for. She was just being herself, just being Ellie, and she'd made her father proud, and she found herself smiling.

"If I can do anything-" she offers, and there's a chuckle from the other end of the phone that's decidedly surprised. "Don't start," she warns, but she's laughing too.

"Ellie," her father says, his tone serious again. "There is nothing in the world I would do with such an offer but accept it. I'll let you know."

"OK."

"You're going to ok over there?" he asks. "You have people around you, friends you can count on?"

"Yes Dad." She has a sense where this is going, and she finds herself counting to ten.

"Is Bob still around?"

She bites back a grin, doesn't even try to stop herself rolling her eyes. "Yes Dad, I'm still dating Rob," she says, putting extra emphasis on the name. "And he's a nice guy."

Her father snorts. "A nice guy would have a proper job."

"He's a guitarist Dad, that is his job."

"Just tell me that you're not driving in that death-trap of his."

"Dad, the van is perfectly roadworthy." They've had this discussion before, but this time, what with the thawing of their frosty relationship, it's amusing Ellie rather than irritating her, which, she thinks, might have been her father's intention. "All you need to do is get to know him a little…"

"I know enough."

"Dad, you never like any of our boyfriends," Ellie points out, something that just so happens to be true, though she thinks that it might bother her more if she was serious about Rob, but she's not. He's a nice guy, she was right about that, and he makes her laugh and he treats her well and she cares about him, but she's not in love with him, not really, and she's not sure she ever will be. But for now, what they have is fun, and that's enough for her.

"That's because you all have terrible taste in men," her father tells her archly, though she can hear the teasing undercurrent in his voice. "Unlike your mother."

Ellie laughs out loud. "You just take a while to get to like them," she retorts. "You didn't like Doug the first time you met him."

"What makes you think I like him now?" Ellie's not touching that one with a ten-foot pole, because her father's relationship with her sister's husband has always been one of those subjects that her family really don't talk about. Much like her own relationship with her father in fact. "Besides, you did have that boyfriend that I liked… the funny one from California, the one with the shirts and the hair."

Ellie grins, because that can only refer to one person, and her gaze falls once more on the picture of the two of them together. "Greg," she says softly.

"Yes! Greg! I liked him, what happened to him?"

"We're still friends Dad… I'll tell him you said hi if you want."

It's a deflecting statement, and her father recognises it as such. He tuts, and she can picture him shaking his head. "Fine…" he mutters, and just when she thinks she's escaped, he takes one last swing at it. "But he was a good one… I've never seen you light up like you did when you were with him."

It's the God's honest truth, and the words make tears sear Ellie's throat. "That's because I never did," she replies, and there's nothing her father can say to that.

In the silence that follows, Ellie can hear a knock on the door on the other end of the line, can hear a familiar voice. "I'm sorry to interrupt Sir," says Mrs Landingham, "But Admiral Fitzwallace needs you in the Situation Room…"

"Ellie-" Her father's voice is the next one that she hears, and once more, she finds herself letting him off the hook.

"Go Dad," she tells him. "I'll talk to you later on in the week."

"OK." He says it like it's a goodbye, but he doesn't hang up the phone. Instead, he takes a beat before asking, "Are we ok?"

Ellie grins as she recalls a very different man asking her that question on other, very different, occasions. She still gives the same answer though.

"Always."

>*<*>*<

 

 

It is May 2001, and Greg can’t remember a time that he’s been more frazzled, although at least there is a bright side; that Grissom has been reinstated as graveyard shift boss, and that the whole lab is basking in the glow of having caught the so-called Strip Strangler. The graveyard shift feel good about themselves, the day shift supervisor, Conrad Ecklie, is jealous enough to chew nails, which makes them feel even better, and all in all, the lab is a pretty happy place to be in right now.

Apart from the DNA lab, because Greg allowed himself to get just a tiny bit backed up while running tests for Grissom and Catherine, and he’s got so many samples to test that he’s actually in early, although he’s not actually made it to his lab yet, having stopped in the break room to get some coffee. Lord knows, he’s going to need something to get him through the shift. All this is amusing Nick Stokes hugely, Nick, who is in early himself to do some paperwork, he having also let himself get backed up during the Strip Strangler case. Despite the fact that he’s in the same boat, he’s having great fun making fun of Greg, who is, at present, exercising all the self-control he possesses to not add another murder to their already overloaded caseload.

Thus he’s almost relieved when his cell phone rings, and he grabs at it, flipping it open and raising it to his ear without even looking at the caller ID display. “Hello?” he says, playing it safe, just in case it’s his mother calling, but the voice on the other end, while female and familiar, is not his mother’s.

“Greg?” At the back of his mind, it registers that there’s something off in her tone, but so eager is Greg to get away from Nick’s mocking that he grins broadly, says her name, cutting off any further comment from her.

“Ellie!” That’s when his gaze falls on the clock, reading just past nine o’clock at night. His mind does the maths automatically; nine o’clock in Vegas means that it’s midnight in Baltimore, and Ellie’s not usually one to be up so late, being as it’s Monday and she’s going to have a full compliment of whatever it is they do in med school the next day. “What has you up so late?” he continues, his voice light, and Nick’s looking at him curiously, with just a hint of amusement in his gaze.

“Ellie?” he mouths, and Greg glares at him, puts his finger over his lips in the time-honoured signal that orders silence. His attention doesn’t stay on Nick for long though, not when there’s the unmistakable sound of a sob from the other end of the phone.

“I… um… I needed to talk to you…” Ellie’s words are halting, and there’s no doubt in Greg’s mind that she’s crying, or that she has been for quite some time. Their hairs on the back of his neck rise up one by one, and he stands, not quite sure why, just needing to move somehow.

“Ellie, what’s wrong?” he demands, not wasting any time beating around the bush. She doesn’t answer straight away, her intake of breath almost a whoop, and something deep in his stomach twists painfully when he hears it. “Ellie, come on, talk to me…”

By now, Nick is frowning, looking up at him as Greg paces from side to side, and his friend stands, gesturing over his shoulder, indicating without words that he’ll leave Greg alone. Greg nods gratefully, but not even half his attention is on the other man. He’s too busy listening to the woman on the other end of the line, the woman who even now is telling him, in those same halting, sobbing, tones, “There’s been an accident…”

There are a thousand possibilities presenting themselves, and some of them he dismisses without even thinking too hard about them. If something had happened to her mother or father, especially her father, he would have heard about it by now, it would have been on the news. He’s pretty sure that the same would be true if something had happened to either of her sisters, at least if something serious had happened to either of her sisters. Then again, it has to be something major for her to be so upset about it, but those few words seem to be all she’s capable of getting out at the moment. “What kind of accident?” he demands, and when there’s nothing, he continues, “Ellie, you’re scaring me.” He runs a hand through his hair, tries again. “What kind of accident?”

She sucks in a deep breath. “It’s Mrs Landingham,” she says, and his hand rakes through his hair again, this time in disbelief as he easily pictures the old woman who is her father’s secretary, has been for as long as Greg has known Ellie. Diminutive, with white hair and glasses, not to mention a snarky turn of phrase that rivals Greg’s own, he’s rather fond of the woman, and much to his surprise, and everyone else’s, she appears to be quite fond of him too. The times when he would appear at her desk would be few and far between, even when he was dating Ellie, but ever since their first meeting, she’s always asked after him, talked to him, offered him cookies, never taking no for an answer. “She was driving back to the White House,” Ellie continues. “She was picking up her new car and she was bringing it back to show Dad… a drunk driver ran a red light and crashed into her…”

Greg swallows hard, because there can be only one reason for her upset, even as his mind rails against it. “Is she-?” He can’t finish the question, but Ellie doesn’t need it.

“Greg, she’s dead,” she whispers, and he’s grateful that he’s on his own, because he sinks down onto one of the comfortable chairs in the break room, props the elbow of his free arm on his knee and props his head up on that hand.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her as her voice breaks off into what sounds like more soft cries, and while he’s shocked, and upset, there’s a little voice at the back of his head that tells him there’s something more going on here; that yes, she might have known Mrs Landingham since she was a little girl, and yes, it’s a terrible shock and a tragedy, but she seems more upset than even those reasons would account for. “How’s your dad?” he asks, pushing those thoughts aside, and she’s silent for a moment, as if contemplating her answer, or maybe just pulling herself together enough to answer.

“I don’t know,” she answers. “Leo’s with him, and Mom’s going up to Washington… I just… I don’t know how he’s going to take this… not with everything else…”

She stops talking then, but not in the same way as she’s stopped talking recently, when her voice trailed off, choked by tears. This time, she stops abruptly, as if she’s realised that she’s said too much, and Greg’s instantly on the alert, his thoughts of seconds earlier once more rushing to the forefront of his mind. “Everything else?” he asks. “What everything else?”

He can hear her shifting, and he knows exactly what she looks like now; head dipped, long hair falling over her face, perhaps her free hand reaching up to grab a clump of it near the roots as she twists uncomfortably, searches for something to say. “The usual stuff I guess,” she replies, her words ringing with insincerity. “You know how busy he is, and this is-”

“Ellie.” The sheer firmness of her name from his lips silences her, and he seizes his advantage. “This is me,” he reminds her, a good deal more gently. “What’s really wrong?”

“Nothing.” She tries to laugh, but he can hear the lie loud and clear, and he shakes his head.

“You’ve never not been able to talk to me,” he points out. “Ellie, tell me what’s wrong.”

There’s a long, long pause, and when she speaks, there are fresh tears in her voice. “You can’t tell anyone,” are the first words she says, and he shakes his head at the ceiling.

“Ellie, this is me,” he says again, because while he might as a reputation, well-deserved, as the fount of all gossip in the CSI lab, while he’s not above passing on news and scandal as he sees fit, when it comes to her, to her life, he wouldn’t dream of it. That’s why no-one in the CSI lab knows who she is, though people have heard him mention his friend Ellie. They just don’t know that she’s Ellie Bartlet, the President’s daughter, and even when politics is discussed, when the President is mentioned, Greg never lets on about his relationship with the family. That’s sacred ground, and he always thought she knew that.

“I know that,” she tells him, her words quick. “But I mean it Greg… this is important, and if anyone knew I told you…”

“OK, ok.” Her panic is evident, and while the hairs on Greg’s neck haven’t stood down since this phone conversation began, now the hairs on the back of his arms begin to stand up one by one as well. “Not a word.”

Another long silence, and then whispered words that sound as if her soul is being torn out by speaking them. “Greg, he’s sick.”

Greg’s jaw drops, and he forces his lips to move with some difficulty. “God, Ell… I didn’t… I mean…” As he tries to frame a sentence, he realises that no-one else must know either, because it’s something that would have been on the news, and didn’t he just think a few minutes ago that nothing could have happened to her father because it would have been on the news? A list of possibilities springs to mind, but it could be anything, so he asks, “Is it serious? I mean…”

“He has Multiple Sclerosis.”

The words are uttered in that same ragged whisper, and Greg feels his head start to spin, searching his memory for what he knows about the disease. “Ellie, I’m sorry,” he says again, rubbing his hand over his face, reflecting idly that he’s not going to need any coffee to stay awake for the shift after all. Between Mrs Landingham, this, and worrying about Ellie, he’s wondering if he’ll ever get to sleep again. “When did you find out?”

“Eight years ago.”

For a second, he’s sure that he’s heard her wrong, is positive of it in fact. Because he’s known her since they were both in college, they met in 1994, and his mathsy brain instantly tells him that eight years ago, it was 1993, so she’s known about this the whole time they’ve known one another. She’s known this, all this time, and she never once said a word to him about it. She brought him home to her parents, he brought her home to his, they laughed and lived and loved together for three years, and they’ve been friends, or as Alanis Morrisette would say, friends with benefits, for the last four years, and she never said a word to him about it.

“Are you serious?” he asks, in a voice that’s very like her own ragged whisper, and when she speaks, she’s crying again.

“I wanted to tell you Greg,” she chokes out. “There were so many times… but I couldn’t, none of us could. There were less than a dozen people that knew at the time, it was our big family secret… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Her speech is peppered with sobs, and Greg closes his eyes, not needing much imagination to put himself in her shoes. “You should have told me,” he says, but there’s no recrimination in his voice. “I could have done something, I could have helped you…”

“You did,” she tells him quietly. “You have no idea how much.”

“I could have done more.” He pauses to let the words sink in, for her as much as for him, and then asks something that he really doesn’t understand. “Why is this an issue now? Is he getting worse?”

“He’s going to announce it at a press conference on Wednesday night,” she tells him, and for some unknown reason, all the moisture in his mouth evaporates. “A television interview before that,” she continues, her voice trembling, and Greg can understand why. He remembers last year, when the President was shot at Rosslyn, the press coverage that that generated, can only imagine the explosion that this revelation will produce. “Greg, they’re going to crucify him.”

Her choice of verb makes him remember something; this is no ordinary non-disclosure. This is the President of the United States, who stood for election without telling the American people that he had Multiple Sclerosis. “He’s going to be in trouble for this, isn’t he?” he realises, not well-versed in politics, but enough to know that much.

“There’ll be hearings. Probably a Special Prosecutor. And even without that, the press will be all over it. I’ll probably be subpoenaed… all of us will. People are going to think that he’s a liar and a cheat… and the first thing they’re going to want to know is if he’s going to run for re-election.”

Greg’s having trouble wrapping his head around most of that, but he grabs hold of the last phrase. “Will he?”

This pause is the longest yet. “I don’t know.” Then, softer, as if she can’t bear to think of it, “And if he does, he won’t win.” He wants to deny it, but he knows that it’s probably true. “When I think of all the times I’ve hated being the President’s daughter,” she tells him. “All the times I’ve wished that it would all just vanish, all just go away… I never wanted it like this…”

She breaks off then, and he knows she’s crying again. His arms fairly ache to hold her, but all he can do is say, “I know babe… I know…”

A very long time later, or maybe it just seems that way to him, helpless with an entire country between them, she calms down, and he pictures her swiping at her cheeks almost impatiently. “I’m sorry to lay this on you-” she starts, but he’s not having any of that.

“That’s what I’m here for,” he tells her firmly, is gratified to hear a chuckle from her.

“Oh,” she says. “Is that what it is?”

He shrugs, falling into the usual banter, in spite of the circumstances. “Among other things,” he replies, and the suggestive tone he employs makes her laugh out loud, a laugh that’s cut off by a loud yawn. “Go to bed,” he orders, his tone gentle. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

Ellie chuckles dryly. “Somehow, I don’t see me sleeping,” she says, and he shrugs.

“Then call me if you need me.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“I promise. Good night Greg.”

“Night.”

He hangs up the phone, stares at it for a long moment before he stands, slipping it into the pocket of his lab coat. Slowly, feeling wide awake, yet at the same time feeling as if he’s walking through quicksand, he goes to the door, opens it, and it’s a measure of how out of it he actually is that he doesn’t jump when he almost walks into Nick, who seems to have taken it upon himself to stand guard on the door, making sure that no-one disturbs him. Nick is, at the moment, talking to Grissom, and when both men turn to look at Greg, he realises that he must look as bad as he feels, if not worse. Nick’s jaw literally drops, his eyes showing his concern, as does the quick look he casts Grissom. Grissom seems equally as surprised, though he doesn’t show it as much; still though, his concern is evident by the tilt of his head, the slight step that he takes towards Greg.

It’s Nick who speaks first, does so as Grissom takes that little step. “Everything ok man?”

Greg stares at him, shakes his head, but can’t seem to find the words to speak, and Grissom takes another half-step towards him, prompting, “Greg?”

The word draws Greg’s attention to Grissom, his boss, the man who’s in charge of everything, and suddenly, the words come easily. “I need to go to Baltimore,” he says. “Tonight.”

>*<*>*<

Unlike last year, when he came to Baltimore from Vegas in the middle of the night, enduring a trip which could only be described as hell on earth, this year, his journey goes much more smoothly. Upon seeing his face when he leaves the break room, Grissom tells him to go straight home, make whatever arrangements he needs, and to call him from the road when he knows what he’s going to do. Greg nods quickly, distractedly, his mind already on what he needs to do, but he still manages to say “Thank you”, also thanking his lucky stars that while Grissom might be more than a little paperwork challenged, when it comes to the people under his command, he’s a hell of a boss.

When he gets home, John, reclining on the couch with his girlfriend and a movie, reacts with surprise to see him, surprise turning to concern when Greg explains why he’s home early. His friend expresses concern for Ellie, wonders if there’s anything he can do, and when Greg outlines all he has to do, John reaches for the phone, demands that Greg give him his wallet, and he calls the airlines to book a flight for Greg, making sure to leave the return date open.

Meanwhile, Greg is in his room, haphazardly throwing clothes into a bag, but he stops when his eye falls on the picture of himself and Ellie that is on his desk. It was taken during his senior year in college, Ellie’s junior year, during the Christmas vacation, when he’d rung in the New Year with Ellie and her family at the Bartlet farm. He’d met her father, had met all her family by then, but had never spent so much time with them before, had been quite nervous about it, because he was full sure that Governor Bartlet hated him. That first day that he’d been there, he’d been walking around the farmhouse, wondering what the hell he was doing there, when a small, grey-haired old woman walked up to him and wasted no time introducing herself to him. “I’m Mrs Landingham,” she said, but he’d guessed that much. She’d looked him up and down, pursing her lips as she said, “So, you’re the boyfriend.”

He’d swallowed, having heard that Mrs Landingham took no prisoners, but slightly taken aback at just how forthright she was. “Yes Ma’am,” he’d said, giving her his most winning smile. “That’s me.”

“Hmmm.” Once again, she’d looked him up and down. “Well, you certainly look the part.” He’d wondered what that meant, stopped wondering if it was good or bad when she took a step towards him, patting his arm. “You don’t mind anything he says to you. Come on, I’ll get you a cookie.”

Without further ado, she’d led him to what he knew was the Governor’s study, a small desk, hers he presumed, outside it, laden with papers, a computer, and a small crystal cookie jar. “I make them myself,” she’d told him. “Have one at home, in Concord and here.” She’d pressed a cookie into his hand, then looked at him again, giving him another one. “Take one for Ellie too,” she’d said, and there was no way he was going to refuse her.

He’d gone looking for Ellie, had found her in the kitchen, where she was making coffee for him, tea for her. She never had liked coffee. When he’d told her that he had the eats to go with the drinks, her eyes had grown wide, and she’d laughed aloud. “Mrs Landingham gave you a cookie?” she’d asked, and he hadn’t understood why that was such a big deal, until she’d followed up with, “Well, you’re really part of the family now.”

That thought should have freaked him out, made him nervous.

Instead it had made him happy.

And now, he is living in Vegas, Ellie in Baltimore, and Mrs Landingham is dead. The Governor is now the President, and he’s got Multiple Sclerosis, which he’s been hiding from everyone for eight years.

Sighing, Greg traces the line of Ellie’s face with one finger. “How the hell did we end up like this?” he wonders.

He is jolted from his reverie by a knock on the door, by John’s head appearing through the crack. “Got you a flight,” he says. “You need to be at the airport in an hour.”

Greg nods, runs a hand through his hair. That’s just enough time for him to call Ellie, tell her that he’s coming. “Can you fix me up with a cab?” he asks, and John gives him an “Oh please,” look.

“I’ll take you,” he says, and when Greg opens his mouth to protest, John holds up a hand. “Greg,” he says simply. “I love her too you know.”

There’s nothing that Greg can say to that, so he lets John leave the room, grabs his cell phone when he’s sure the door is all the way closed, and calls Ellie. She protests, as he knew she would, but he stands his ground, asking her bluntly, “Tell me you don’t want me there.”

When there is only silence, he knows that he’s doing the right thing.

As promised, John takes him to McCarran, and on the way, Greg can’t help but notice that John is casting sideways glances in his direction. “Spit it out man,” he says finally, when he gets sick of it.

“Excuse me?” John’s face is a cross between amusement and genuine confusion.

“I can feel you over there,” Greg responds, waving his hands in the air. “Just gearing up for ‘What the hell is going on between you and Ellie?’ part seven hundred and sixty three. Just spit it out and get it over with.”

There is a long pause, where the only sound in the car is the Pekinpah CD that John “borrowed” from Greg six months ago and forgot to return. Of course, Greg had “borrowed” it from Ellie three years before that, had kept forgetting to return it, and when he did, she told him to keep it, that she’d bought another copy. The song is Symphony of Epiphanies, the band’s breakthrough hit, and Greg remembers seeing them play it in concert one perfect summer night in San Francisco, when Ellie was in his arms and all was right with the world.

John says nothing, and Greg leans his head back against the headrest, casting his eyes towards the beige roof interior, concentrating hard on finding a pattern in the little lines there, hoping that that will keep his mind off Ellie.

“How the hell did we end up like this?”

They’re the exact words he uttered in his room, and it’s only when John chuckles that he realises he’s spoken out loud. “Man, we’ve been asking ourselves that for years,” he replies, his matter-of-fact amusement making Greg look over at him. “Oh come on, don’t look so shocked,” John continues. “You love her, she loves you, you’re perfect for one another… why the hell aren’t you guys together?”

It’s something that Greg’s asked himself a hundred times. It’s something he’s asked Ellie more than once as well, most recently last May, when he dropped everything and dashed to Baltimore to be with her when her father was shot. Every time though, he’s come up with, or been told, the same answer. That’s what he uses with John now. “It’s not that simple.”

John blows a blast of air impatiently between his lips. “It should be,” he says bluntly. “Marry the girl Greg… put us all out of your misery.”

Greg would reply, but they’ve just pulled up at McCarran, so instead he simply tells John that he’ll call him when he knows what’s happening. He’s only taken a couple of steps from the car when John’s voice calling his name stops him, makes him turn. “Don’t tell me,” he quips. “You’ve got a ring for me?”

He’s expecting another joke, or more relationship advice, but John’s face is utterly serious. “There’s more going on than just a car accident isn’t there?” Greg knows that his face drops, can feel it happening, can’t do a single thing to stop it. “I know you man… I know when something’s up.”

Greg takes a deep breath, looks down at the ground, knowing that his silence is more of an admission than any words. “John…” is all he says, all he has to say before his friend interrupts him.

“Look, I understand… she’s my friend too, you know?” Looking into his friend’s eyes, Greg slowly nods. “Just take care of her, ok?”

Greg grins, because that, at least, is something he can do. “Always.”

>*<*>*<

In Baltimore, it is a sunny Tuesday morning in May, a morning when Ellie has classes, but no exams, a morning when all her friends seem to be, for once, at peace with the world.

It is a morning that Ellie wishes she could turn over in bed and wake up some time when her father’s tenure as President is over; a day that she’s very glad she has no finals, because she would surely fail them spectacularly. Her thoughts are full of her father, of Mrs Landingham, and while she drags herself out of bed, goes to her classes, it’s very much a case of being there in body but not in spirit. She doesn’t take in a single word, and she’s very glad that Carrie and Melissa are on either side of her, taking copious notes. At a later date, when her brain actually comes back from whatever planet its residing on, she’s going to need them to explain in detail the lectures she’s currently sleep-walking through.

Carrie and Melissa stick by her side like concerned crazy glue, at least until lunch, when they make their way to the cafeteria. They try to drag Ellie along, but the thought of food is more than she can stand right now, her stomach roiling at the thought, and she refuses, standing her ground when they try hard to convince her. She just wants some fresh air, a chance to be alone, to catch her breath, to close her eyes and forget about everything that’s going on in the latest saga of Bartlet familial disasters.

She’s pretty sure that no-one knows that the thing she likes to do more than anything else in the world is just this; sitting, on her own, on a bench in the middle of the campus, while the rest of the world goes on without her. There is no-one to hassle her, no-one to look at her, because everyone is too busy going on with their own lives. She can even forget about the Secret Service Agents scattered around, observing her from a distance.

Today of all days, it’s an especially welcome feeling.

It’s not as welcome though, as the voice that breaks into her thoughts, the voice that she knows so well. “Room for one more on that bench?” it asks, and her eyes fly open, her head whipping around. Standing there, looking slightly tired, more than a little rumpled, but entirely timely, is Greg, and then she is standing, moving towards him at some speed. She flings her arms around his neck, holds on for dear life, and he holds her just as tightly, one hand going to her back, the other cupping the back of her head. She feels better the moment she is in his arms, and she wishes that she could stay there forever, for the rest of her life.

But she knows better, so she makes herself loosen her grip, forces herself to step away from him. He gives her a small smile, reaching up to brush some hair away from her face, and she suddenly remembers the first time he ever did that, on the steps of a frat house at Stanford, the night he’d found out her father was Governor of New Hampshire. The memory makes her grin, if for no other reason than she can’t believe how young they were back then, how everything felt so complicated at the time, yet it seems so simple now. “I thought you were going to meet me after class,” she says, because the notion of meeting up with him had been the only thing getting her through the day, and he shrugs, tucking her hand through his arm, picking up his bag with his free hand, walking her back to the bench.

“I was,” he replies. “But I got to the airport… got something to eat, and I was going to go to your place, wait for you there…” He shrugs again. “Yet my feet led me here. Who knew?”

She chuckles, because he makes it sound like it was an accident, and for just a second, it feels as if things are normal. That lasts as long as it takes for them to sit down side by side on the bench. That’s when he slips one arm around her shoulders, his other hand taking a firm grip on hers, and his eyes, when they meet hers, are shadowed with concern. “You ok babe?”

He’s asked her that question before, but then, they were in her apartment and she’d endured a hellish night of staring at the television screen in shock. Today, they are not in her apartment, they are outdoors, on a bench on campus, and she’s already done her crying. She refuses to break down again, and certainly not in public. Still though, her throat tightens, tears prickling at the back of her eyes, and she finds it hard to get the words out. “I’m holding up,” she whispers, and she barely recognises that hoarse voice as her own.

“Yeah?” He’s got his doubtful face on, and she tries to flash him a quick grin, but she’s not so sure that it gets there.

“I’ve never been so scared in my life,” she admits frankly, and his teeth flash white in his face as he laughs a real laugh.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he says, and she chuckles too, glancing down at their entwined fingers. When she looks up again, Greg is looking at her with narrowed eyes and furrowed brow, and she knows she’s about to get the full Greg Sanders Damsel Rescue Special, knows that the only thing she can do is sit back and get it over with. “So, pale face, slightly red eyes, dark shadows… I take it you didn’t get much sleep last night?”

She doesn’t bother lying to him; he won’t believe her anyway. “Next door to none,” she admits. “I kept dreaming…” She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head, a shiver running up her spine as she remembers those dreams; seeing the crash that claimed Mrs Landingham’s life, hearing her father’s voice telling her he had Multiple Sclerosis, watching him admit it at a press conference, the assembled reporters turning into a literal pack of wolves, storming the podium. She’d woken up at best in a cold sweat, at worst screaming, and she was glad that only the Secret Service outside might have heard her, because they’d never tell, would never ask her how she was doing.

Reality is a welcome intrusion when Greg squeezes her hand. “It’s ok,” he says, and with him, like this, she can almost believe him. Then he breaks their gaze, looks down at the ground, and she knows him well enough to know that he’s uncomfortable. “Rob’s not gonna mind me being here, is he? Because I mean, I just came to… I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes…”

She grins, because in that whole speech, he’s never raised his head. “We broke up,” she says, unable to keep a teasing tone from her voice, despite the circumstances. It always amuses her how they’ve been apart for years, that they’ve both, somewhat, moved on, have seen other people, yet when he’s faced with the prospect of meeting one of her boyfriends for the first time, Greg is perpetually ill at ease.

“Yeah?” His head flies up, and he looks for all the world as if he can’t decide whether to smile or be annoyed on her behalf, his expression a strange combination between the two.

“Last week,” she confirms. “We had a fight… actually, I kind of initiated the fight… and over-reacted during the fight…” In point of fact, she’d been a bitch on wheels since her father had called her, told her that he was going public with the MS story. She’d known that things were going to get difficult, that her life was going to go crazy, and she had no desire to put Rob through that. In any case, she’d told herself, they weren’t that serious, neither one of them had plans for marriage, or anything like it, and he hadn’t argued when she’d told him that she hadn’t felt it was working for a while. She supposes she should feel upset about that, that she didn’t mean more to him, but the only emotion she can feel about the whole affair is something more like relief. “Anyway, it’s for the best.”

“It is?”

She shakes her head, but not to show disagreement. “We were never serious,” she says, and he tilts his head to one side, lifting an eyebrow.

“Seven months and a weekend at the farm?” he says lightly, too lightly she knows at once, and she chooses to ignore it in her reply.

“He’s a great guy,” she says simply. “But we were never going to work long term. And with…” Her voice trails off as she looks around her, as if someone is going to be listening in on their conversation. “With tomorrow… and after… we would never have made it through that. Better to end it clean, before…” She stops when she sees him shaking his head, lips pursed in disapproval. “What?”

“He wasn’t good enough for you,” he says simply, and she laughs.

“You met him for a couple of days at Christmas,” she points out. “And you liked him fine then.”

“I liked him,” Greg counters. “But he wasn’t good enough for you.”

Ellie rolls her eyes. “You hate all my boyfriends,” she accuses, following up with, “You sound like my dad.”

He claps a hand to his chest in almost Victorian shock. “Eleanor, I’m stunned,” he quips, but it’s the truth and she knows it, fixes him with a steely gaze and tells him exactly that.

“I speak the truth, and you know it.”

“OK, ok.” His hand squeezes her shoulder, and he’s smiling, but his eyes are serious. “But just because I hate all your boyfriends doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

Ellie sighs, because this is one of those circular conversations that Greg excels at, the ones she normally checks out of early because life’s too short for that, even if she does rather enjoy those same conversations. “OK, fine,” she says, with another sigh.

“If you’re agreeing this easily,” he notes, “Then you’re definitely not ok.” Greg-logic at its finest she thinks, but she’s laughing, which was probably his intent, and he’s smiling too. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go get you some food.”

She shakes her head, because the thought of food still makes her stomach churn, though not as much as a few minutes ago. “I’m not hungry,” she says, but he’s not going to take that from her.

“Well I am,” he tells her, and she knows it’s a lie. “You can watch me eat.” He’s standing up, dragging her along with him, and she wants to protest, but her feet are moving of their own accord. It’s a surprise when he stops, looks at her curiously. “You got classes this afternoon?”

She nods, but it changes into a shake of the head halfway through. “Forget the classes,” she decides, and his jaw drops.

“What has got into you?” he laughs, stops laughing when he sees the flash of pain crossing her face. “Sorry,” he says, instantly contrite. “I didn’t think.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she tells him and when he still looks worried, she slips one arm around his waist, signals to her agents with the other. “Just take me home.”

His arm slides around her waist too, and that’s just what he does. Once there, over her protests, he makes them omelettes and makes her eat, and they spend the rest of the day curled up on her couch, talking quietly. She tells him all about her father’s illness, about the symptoms, about what it was like when they found out, about the conversations they’d had when he was trying to decide should he run for President. She tells him about how scared she was for him, ran through some of the things that could happen, words like resignation and impeachment cropping up with some regularity. They reminisce about Mrs Landingham, about how she’d been so fond of Greg, and as they do, he holds her, strokes her hair, holds her hand in his, but she does not cry, not one single tear. She thinks that she’s beyond tears, beyond crying; now she is just numb.

And when the sun goes down and the room grows dark, when she can hardly keep her eyes open owing to her lack of sleep the night before, when the only things she is aware of are Greg’s arms around her, his heartbeat against her ear, she rises from the couch, muscles screaming in protest. He tilts his head curiously as she rubs her eyes, and he stands too, asks her where she keeps her blankets for the couch. She shakes her head again, but she doesn’t speak, just reaches out her hand to his, leading him into her bedroom. “Ellie…” he whispers, his voice low, but when she turns to him, he doesn’t say anything after that.

“Don’t Greg,” she pleads, and she hardly recognises her voice as her own. “Just hold me… please?”

He sighs, steps into her body, pulling her close to him, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before breathing his answer. “OK.”

 

>*<*>*<

Even though he’s going to bed at a time when he would normally be up and about, prowling the DNA lab, Greg nonetheless sleeps soundly with Ellie in his arms, which, he supposes, is to be expected as, unless you count the couple of snatched hours on the plane, he hasn’t slept since he got that phone call from Ellie. Thus, when the alarm goes off at an obscenely early hour of Wednesday morning, it is his arm that reaches out quicker, smacks it off violently before flopping back on the pillow, marvelling inwardly that it’s bright outside.

When his eyes have adjusted to the unaccustomed daylight, he opens them carefully, turns his head to the woman who’s lying at his side. Her back is to him, but he knows that she’s awake, because the stiffness, the rigidity in her shoulders, does not belong to one who is sleeping peacefully. Rolling onto his side, he scoots over slightly so that he can press his body to hers, one arm sliding around her waist. It’s only when he’s done it that he realises that it’s not a very “just good friends” gesture; it’s only then that he realises he doesn’t care. “This is far too early to be waking up you know,” he tells her conversationally, keeping his tone light, and it pays dividends, because Ellie chuckles a little.

“That’s because you’re usually going to bed right now,” she points out.

“True.” He concedes the point easily as one of her hands closes over his, trapping it against her stomach. “So why are you getting up at this ungodly hour?”

She sighs. “I have an early lab,” she tells him. “But I think I’m going to skip it today.”

Greg frowns, because skipping off class is most unlike the Ellie Bartlet that he knows. He let it go yesterday because she looked like the walking dead, but this morning, after a good night’s sleep, he fully expected her to go to class as usual. “You sure about that?” he asks, and she nods, still not looking at him.

“Knowing my luck, I’d probably blow up the place,” she reasons. “Besides, it’s not like I’m going to be able to concentrate.” A heavy silence falls between them, and for once, Greg has no idea what to say. Maybe she knows that, because she continues, “The interview is going to air at eight. But CJ will have to leak it before that… give the networks time to prepare something, the press, the public…” A shudder runs the length of her body. “The funeral is at midday,” she whispers. “And he still hasn’t decided if he’s running again or not.” He feels her swallow hard, shudder again, and when she looks at him over her shoulder, the look of fear and worry on her face is enough to break his heart. “Can we just sleep through the day?”

He gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile, turning her so that she’s facing him, her body pressed against his. “We can do that,” he promises, brushing her hair back from her face, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, and against all odds, she smiles at his actions.

“There is one thing I want to do,” she says hesitantly, her hand reaching up to finger his t-shirt, and he frowns, because Ellie always fiddles with something - hair, clothes, anything she can get her hands on – when she is nervous.

“Yeah?” he prompts after a moment of silence where she twists his t-shirt so hard around her fingers that he’s sure it’s either going to rip or she’s going to cut off her circulation.

“The funeral is at midday,” she says, repeating her earlier words. “And I know I can’t go…”

“You could you know,” he tells her, and she looks up at him in obvious surprise. “I mean, Washington’s what, an hour’s drive away?”

“Forty-five minutes,” she corrects, and there’s a slight upturn of her lips that makes him think that that’s been pointed out to her before, several times if he had to make a guess.

“Well, that’s nothing. We could make it; I mean, I’ve got the rental car, or the agents could drive us…” He turns his head to look at the glowing red numbers of the alarm clock, doing the maths easily. “We’re up plenty early, we could make it.”

She looks like she’s considering it, but then Ellie shakes her head. “I don’t want to be in Washington today,” she says quietly, looking down. There are tears in her voice, but not in her eyes, and it suddenly strikes Greg that he hasn’t seen her cry since he’s been here. She cried during their first phone call yes, had sobbed, but not when he called her to tell her that he was coming out here, not when he saw her on campus, not while they were talking last night on the couch. It’s obvious to him that she’s holding herself together only by the thinnest of fraying threads, and he wonders when she will break, and he hopes that when she does, it’s when he’s here.

“I guess it is going to be a madhouse,” he says, and she chuckles mirthlessly.

“Understatement,” she says flatly. “I don’t want to be a part of that,” she continues softly. “But I do want to go to Mass… I know I’m not that religious, it’s not like I go every week or anything but I just… I feel like…”

“Ellie.” He stops her with a squeeze of her hand and a smile. “We can do that.”

She nods, gives him a tiny smile, her cheeks flushing pink. “Until then,” she asks, flush deepening, “Can we just stay here for a little while?”

He chuckles, tightens his hold on her. “Not a problem.” She grins at him too, but midway it turns into a yawn, and he runs a hand through her hair, pressing her head down onto his shoulder. “Go to sleep,” he whispers, the hand moving through her hair, coming on down to rub her cheek. “I’ll wake you in a couple of hours.”

He swears that she’s asleep before he’s finished the sentence, and he takes a couple of minutes to just look at her, realise anew, as he does every time they do this, just how much he misses her when he’s in Las Vegas. The last time he was here like this, almost exactly a year ago, he asked her why they weren’t together, just the same question that John asked him as he dropped him to the airport. She’d given him a variation on the same answer that Greg had given John, and he knew that he’d told his friend the truth.

Just being here like this, it’s hard to remember it, that’s all.

What’s not hard to remember is what she’s going through at the moment, the enormity of the insanity that’s going to make its way into her life. She doesn’t need him asking her that question, making demands of her; she’s got enough to be dealing with. He’s here, not to carry out John’s first suggestion, but his final one, the one where he told Greg to take care of her.

That’s not hard to do at all.

So he lets her sleep, surprises himself by dropping off a little himself, catching about another hour of sleep before rising, slipping out of bed carefully so as not to wake her. She didn’t stir at all though, slept peacefully on through him showering and dressing, even through him making breakfast. He takes it into her bedroom, wakes her up with a cheerful “Rise and shine!”, something that has her muttering about Secret Service agents who can kill him and make up the reason why. When she hears the word “breakfast” though, she rolls over onto her back and sits up, her eyes growing wide when she sees the tray in his hands. It’s nothing fancy he tells her, just toast and cereal and orange juice, but it makes her smile, and she treats it as if it was five star cuisine. He sits on the bed beside her, legs stretched out in front of him, tray between them, and they enjoy animated conversation about nothing in particular while they eat. When cereal is finished and they’re munching their way through a plate of toast, he goes and gets coffee for him, tea for her, and brings that back, where more conversation ensues, and he could almost, almost forget what brought them here.

Until that is, she sighs, gets out of bed and goes to her wardrobe, finding a sober pair of black trousers and matching jacket, a cream blouse to go with it. She holds them up to the light, hanging them up on the wardrobe door when she decides that they pass muster, glancing at him curiously. “You need to iron something?” she asks, and he chuckles, because he knows it’s her diplomatic way of telling him to change out of the jeans and baggy shirt that he’d travelled from Vegas to Baltimore in, which, believe it or not, he was going to do anyway.

“I hope jeans are ok,” he says, getting up and going to his bag, because he knows he has a clean pair in there, hopes they didn’t get too crumpled when he threw them in there; it’s not like he paid any great attention to his packing.

“And your shirt…” she says, wrinkling her nose, and he holds up his hands.

“I have a plain shirt,” he assures her, and she crosses her arms over her chest, giving him a frankly disbelieving look.

“Since when do you own a plain shirt?” she asks, quite a reasonable question actually, and he gives her a look.

“I’m a man of many surprises,” he informs her archly, casting a glance at the clock. “You’re going to shower, right?”

She opens her mouth to reply, but she must think better of it when she sees the time, moving to the bathroom without further ado. He laughs, stops when he finds a plain blue shirt that somehow managed to find its way right to the bottom of the bag and looks it, finds his jeans in a somewhat similar state, and he knows that a visit to the ironing board is his top priority. By the time he sorts that out, she’s out of her shower, is getting ready, quickly and efficiently as she always does. She’s not a make-up person usually, but today is an exception, the pallor of her skin and the dark shadows underneath her eyes rendering it a necessity. What the make-up can’t do though, is hide the sadness in her eyes, and there’s nothing anywhere that can alleviate the shake of her hand when she applies her lipstick, or when she runs a brush through her hair. Greg watches her carefully, can’t take his eyes off her, and when she lays down the brush, he comes up behind her, puts his hands lightly on her hips and meets her eyes in the mirror. “Whatever you need today,” he tells her, “Just ask.”

She swallows hard, nods, but says nothing. Instead, she turns to him, lays a hand over his heart, pats it carefully. Then she is gone, going out into the living room to find her purse.

If the agents notice anything strange in their destination, then they don’t comment on it, and if the sparse congregation know that the President’s daughter is in their midst, then they don’t show any signs of it. Greg and Ellie find a pew near the back, off to the side, and Greg keeps a close eye on Ellie, follows her lead on when to sit, when to kneel, when to stand, because it’s a long time since he’s been anywhere near a church, and there’s a part of him that’s almost surprised that he wasn’t struck down by lightning immediately upon entry. He’s concentrating on her for more than just that though, is struck by how the dim light of the church plays across her face, the shadows falling across her face as she looks up at the altar somehow working magic, relieving the shadows in her eyes, the stress on her face. When mass is over, she lights two candles, and he knows without asking that one is for Mrs Landingham, another for her father, and he follows her lead, something that has her lips turning up in a smile, one that looks more real, more peaceful, than any he’s seen in the last twenty-four hours.

On leaving the chapel, he takes her hand in his, inclining his head to the left, and when she grins, he knows that she’s understood his unspoken question, and they set off hand in hand down the street, exploring the neighbourhood, talking quietly among themselves, stories and reminiscences, and they walk until they’re hungry, and then they stop at a small coffee shop for lunch. They’re having a most pleasant time until Ellie looks at her watch, a shadow falling across her face, and Greg checks the time himself, sees that it is mid-afternoon.

“The story’s probably out there by now,” she says quietly, dread ringing through her tone, shattering the tranquillity around them, worry rushing in to fill the cracks, wrapping around them like a shroud.

“You want to head back?” he guesses, and she nods, so he signals to the waitress for their cheque, the agents drifting over to them automatically, and they are driven home in silence.

They can hear the ringing of her phone from the hall outside, and she fumbles with the key, throws open the door and runs inside, grabbing the phone and uttering a breathless greeting to whomever is on the other end. As he closes the door, Greg hears her say “Mom”, and he stays silent as he hangs up his jacket, goes into the living room, because he doesn’t know if she wants her mother to know that he’s here. He glances at the answering machine as he passes it, sees that she has five messages, gleans from Ellie’s side of the conversation that most of them are from her mother, checking to see how she is. Ellie is more interested in how things are in Washington, how her father is doing, and something that her mother says to her has her face falling, makes her sit down hard in the armchair, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Concerned, Greg sits down on the arm of the chair, puts an arm around her shoulders, and when she reaches up, grabs his hand and holds on tight, he fights not to pull away, because her hand is like ice.

The rest of the conversation gives him no clues as to what the matter is, and she doesn’t speak when she hangs up the phone, throws it down on the coffee table with an almighty clatter. Her head drops into her hand, and he feels her shoulders shudder as they rise and fall, a sure sign that she’s trying to get a hold of herself.

When she looks up at him, her eyes are bright red, a sure sign of repressed emotion coming to the surface, and her voice shakes more than her shoulders when she speaks. “That was my mom,” she says. “He’s not going to run again.”

He’s sure that this is the moment when it’s going to happen, that this is the moment she’s going to break down, and he’s all ready to catch her when it happens. He does catch her as she leans into him, resting her forehead against his shoulder, but her eyes remain dry, her back remains still as his hands make wide sweeping circles against the fabric of her jacket.

“It’s going to be ok.” He’s not aware that he’s going to say the words until he’s actually said them, and once he hears them, hears how trite they sound, he wishes that he could take them back. But he can’t, so they linger in the room, surrounding them as she straightens and stands, pushing back her hair with both hands.

“I’m going to change,” she says, turning on her heel, already taking off her jacket, and Greg bites back a sigh, silently berating himself for not being smoother, not knowing the right words to say to make things better for her. He seems to be doing better with the non-verbal aspects he thinks, so he stands, goes to the kitchen to fill a kettle of water, intending to make some tea and coffee, changing his mind when he instead spies a tin of drinking chocolate beside the jar of coffee. There are no marshmallows, but he thinks they can make do, so when she emerges from the bedroom, barefoot in a pair of sweatpants and a Stanford sweatshirt, her face scrubbed pink and clean of makeup, there is a cup of hot chocolate waiting for her, and she grins at him, looking faintly guilty.

“Sorry,” she says quietly as she sinks down onto the couch beside him, curling her legs up underneath her. “For walking out just then,” she adds when he pretends not to know what she’s talking about.

“Don’t worry about it,” he tells her. “You’ve got a lot to deal with today.”

“And it doesn’t give me the right to be a brat,” she counters, and he grins, because he knows that she’s walked herself into the obvious response.

“Hey, you don’t think I’m used to it?” he asks, moving backwards quickly when her jaw drops and her eyes grow wide in exaggerated shock, her hand darting out to swat at him, and since she’s got a heck of a punch, he wants to be as far away from that as possible. Her heart doesn’t seem to be in it though, because she barely makes contact, her touch light as a feather, and she is laughing, all tension forgotten.

“You’re incorrigible,” she decides, and he shrugs easily, reaching out and handing her her drink. Her hand closes on the cup, her other hand closing on his wrist, and her eyes are serious when she meets his gaze. “And I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

There is a suspicious lump in Greg’s throat, and he battles it down. “You never will,” he promises, wincing when he hears how it sounds, as if he’s some crazed stalker who’s never going to leave her alone, but she mustn’t think that, because she just smiles.

By unspoken agreement, they do not put on the television, or the radio, instead sitting on the couch, talking interspersed by long silences. At six o’clock, he insists that they eat something, even though she insists equally strongly that she couldn’t eat anything, but he prevails, finding a list of takeout places in the drawer in the kitchen, and he orders a pizza, which they then eat on the couch with glasses of diet Coke. It’s one of their traditional meals, it’s the meal he welcomed her to San Francisco with that first summer that they were dating, but tonight, he’s forcing himself to eat, with only marginally greater success than she is having.

At five minutes to eight exactly, they switch on the television, and Ellie’s breath catches straight away, because there is already a banner reading “Presidential Health Crisis” and a news ticker running at the bottom of the screen citing “a Senior White House official”. He drops the remote control, because there will be no point in changing the channel, and reaches for Ellie’s hands, noting that once more, hers are like ice.

At eight o’clock exactly, the scene switches to an elaborately furnished room, to an interviewer, and the President and First Lady. There is polite small talk to begin, then the President begins to speak, his voice normal, as if his whole life wasn’t about to change in the next few minutes.

“A couple of years ago I began experiencing blurred vision and numbness in my legs. Two years and many tests later, I was diagnosed with a course of relapsing/remitting Multiple Sclerosis.”

Ellie is sitting on the edge of the couch, her knees together, hands joined as if in prayer on top of them, and she is leaning forwards as if she could physically leap through the television screen and join her parents there. Her back is ramrod straight, and when Greg lays his hand on her spine, moves it up and down to remind her that he is there if she wants comfort, she doesn’t move, doesn’t react at all. It’s as if he’s not even there.

Her gaze doesn’t waver from the television screen all through the interview, and she does not speak, not until it is over, and they go back to the studio anchor, who, despite having probably being prepared to break the biggest story of his career, still looks decidedly shell-shocked, not that Greg can blame him. After all, he’s had almost two full days to come to terms with the news, and he’s still struggling to come to terms with it.

Of course, it’s not his top priority. That’s Ellie.

The first indication that she hasn’t turned to stone comes when they start re-running the interview, specifically her father’s admission of when he was diagnosed. With a groan, she reaches out, grabs the remote control from the table and jabs at the mute button viciously. Silence falls between them as she nods her head and he waits for her to speak. “I thought he did ok,” she says hesitantly. “He spoke well… so did Mom…”

“They did.” He can’t go wrong if he agrees with her, but despite her words, her eyes show not a little doubt.

“Maybe this won’t be so bad,” she thinks, and he gestures carefully at the screen, at the reporter who’s standing outside the White House in the middle of what looks like an unseasonal storm.

“Don’t you want to hear what they’re saying?” he suggests, mentally crossing his fingers and hoping that she’ll be ok with that, which she is if the cautious way she picks up the remote control, as if it’s going to bite her, is anything to go by. She un-mutes the sound and the reporter is telling them that the President is on his way to a press conference at the State Department, and guessing about what he might say. After him, there are big name politicians and pundits filling the screen, each of them giving their opinion on what the President just said.

What they have to say makes Greg reconsider the mute button option, but Ellie’s fingers are tight around the remote control, her knuckles white, and she’s sitting like a statue again. Pressing his lips together, he takes it from her, takes her hands in both of his, and together, they watch the news coverage, waiting for the President to appear.

When he does, Ellie gasps, and Greg feels his own jaw dropping open. He is soaked to the skin, almost as if he’s walked from the White House to the State Department, water droplet still visible on his cheeks, his hair sticking up. As he walks up to the podium, CJ descends, mutters something to him as he walks past, but he hardly seems to notice her. Instead, he gets to the podium, and there is pandemonium in the room, Greg can tell that from his perch on a couch forty-five minutes drive away, and there are so many flashbulbs going off that he’s reminded of being in a Vegas club with strobe lighting. It makes his brain hurt, and as if from very far away, he hears Ellie’s voice beside him. “Oh my God,” she whispers. “What are they going to do to him?”

For some reason though, Greg’s not worried, and to his eyes, the President doesn’t seem to be either. He stands proudly at the podium, looks out over the assembled horde, and it looks to Greg as if he makes eye contact with someone before he looks in another direction, points to the crowd.

“Yes Sandy,” he says. Whatever Sandy says is lost amid a rumbling of noise, the sound of a thousand voices shouting, a hundred cameras whirring, and it must be the same in the hall because the President says, “I’m sorry Sandy, there was a bit of noise there, could you repeat the question?”

Without knowing why, Greg holds his breath.

“Can you tell us right now if you’ll be seeking a second term?”

In the days and weeks to come, when the clip will be replayed over and over, when it’s possible to quote it beat for beat, Greg will be stunned to see that the time it takes for the President to answer is barely seconds, because here today, on a couch in Baltimore, the silence seems to stretch forever.

It is long enough for Greg to look at the President’s face, long enough to see him shift slightly on his feet and look off to the side, the slightest glimmer of a smile turning up the edges of his lips.

Long enough for the look to register in Greg’s mind as familiar, long enough to make the connection to a day, long ago in his Uncle Mike’s house in San Francisco, when Ellie had made her up mind about something important and had no intention of letting anything get in her way.

He’d seen that look before that summer San Francisco day, he’s seen it countless times since, but he’s never seen it on her father’s face before, and for an instant, he’s not sure what it means.

Then Ellie’s hand tightens on his, and he knows, both what it means, and why he’s holding his breath.

He wants to tell Ellie what he knows, but there’s no time, because the President is speaking.

“Yeah… and I’m gonna win.”

There are more flashes, and more questions, and the President launches straight into answering them, but Greg can’t concentrate on them, can’t concentrate on anything but Ellie’s hand in his. He can’t look at the President on the television, can only look at the woman beside him, who is staring blankly at the television, open-mouthed.

Once again, time seems to slow down, to stop, and she turns to him oh-so-slowly, brown eyes locking with his.

Then it happens, what he’s been waiting for all day, and he’s already reaching for her by the time it does.

Ellie bursts into tears.


End file.
